My Need To Create Has Multiple Personality Disorder

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Succubus, Chicken Fingers, Doobie Brothers

“You’re not dead yet.” Her vicious whisper is first in one ear, then in the other, so fast that there must be two of her. “You can take much more. I promise.”

He has no idea how long he’s been here. He tried to measure the time by how many times he’s heard the song “You Belong To Me” since she started playing it, but it just blends into itself now. She likes to sing to along to the chorus when it says ‘You belong to me in this life’. Some of the others, too, but mostly those ones. He’s stopped thinking that she actually likes this song, that she’s just using it to torture him. It’s working, since he’s sure that if he gets out of this alive, which is doubtful, that he’ll ever be able to listen to The Doobie Brothers ever again. Their voices alone are enough to set his teeth on edge. They’re ruined forever.

Honestly, at first, this was all pretty goddamned pleasant. Her kisses were intoxicating like a well aged wine. The taste of her tongue thick like chocolate. She made him feel ways that he hadn’t felt ever felt in his life. Actually, he isn’t sure he even dreamed he could feel this way. It’s amazing. Or, rather, was. After about 8 hours of it, his body began to ache. His heart threatened to stop beating. He can feel it stutter even more now. He has wanted to sleep for a very long time, but she won’t let him. She won’t let him do anything.

She’s been near him the whole time, too. Not even a breath of respite. She’s always watching him at the very least. A lot of the time she’s touching him, too. He knows instinctively that this is how she’s sustaining herself, why she hasn’t had to take a break. She’s sapping his energy, taking his lifeforce. Feeding on him without puncturing his skin in any way. He doesn’t know the name for what she is, it’s something other than human, though. She can’t be human. No human is this beautiful, this evil, and able to do what she’s doing.

“How long…” he tries to ask, but she puts her finger over his lips and shakes her head.

He supposes he should be thankful that she’s playful with him, and not causing him pain. He understands that this could be so much worse. He could be bleeding. He could have lost a limb, or several. Her toying with him could include a knife. Fire. As it stands, her torture has been the things that men dream of regularly. It’s a sad state that now he’d willingly be celibate for the rest of his life if she’d just let him go.

The song starts over again.

She licks his fingertips as if they’re coated in chicken grease. The satisfied look she has makes him think of the times when he’s had a really good meal. It’s disturbing to think that she’s seeing him in that light.

If she would just answer his questions. There are two of them, only two of them, that he wants to know. How long he’s been here, and how long he’s going to last. If he knows these things, maybe he’ll feel better. Probably not, but he can have his dreams. She can’t take those from him. At least, she hasn’t shown that ability thus far. Reading minds, knowing thoughts, that would be a lot scarier. He doesn’t want her to know what he’s thinking right now, just in case it could be worse.

“Hmm.” She dances around him, humming the song, touching him lightly here and there. She leans close to his face when she finally stops, inhales deeply. “Oh.”

Her voice sounds startled. He flinches from it. She circles him again, and he can feel her eyes on every part of his skin. “I guess I’m going to have to give you a break, let you recharge some. I can smell the defeat on you, and I can’t have that. Not yet. You’ve got to last.”

He doesn’t know what that means, but she releases his hands from their bondage. When he tries to bring them to his sides, his shoulders scream in pain. Without them holding him up, it’s also very difficult to stand. She’s there, luckily, to catch him before he hits the ground. She lowers him carefully, then undoes his feet. She picks him up and carries him to a soft bed as if he weighs no more than a piece of paper. When she touches him now, he feels no loss of vividness. She’s not doing her thing currently. He’s okay with that.

The soft bed envelops his body. He wants to sink instantly into sleep, she stops him from doing that by producing something wonderful smelling. He opens his eyes and sees a steaming bowl, struggles to sit up, and finally lets her hold the ceramic to his lips. It’s a stew, and the bits of carrot and meat sneak through his lips to his waiting teeth. It warms him from the inside, and he’s thankful. Is this how Stockholm Syndrome starts? At half a bowl, he is too tired and too full to have anymore. He doesn’t even have to make any indications to her. She knows. She puts it aside and lets him fall gently back into the comfort.